by Joe Weber
The multiple radio calls from the departing Thunderchiefs were distracting Palmer. He rolled the MiG inverted when he reached the bottom of the overcast.
Nick swore to himself when he saw the MiG flight leader raise the nose to track him. The jet intake appeared to sparkle when the MiG's cannons started spewing 23- and 37-millimeter shells. Nick felt a series of jolts as a number of the rounds impacted the aircraft.
Shoving forward on the stick, Palmer groaned from the force of the negative g's. A continuous stream of red-orange fireballs slashed by the cockpit. Entering the clouds inverted, Nick rolled the aircraft and instinctively scanned the instrument panel.
The attitude indicator, which provided the pilot with an artificial horizon, had failed. The instrument had tumbled, giving Palmer an instant case of vertigo. He pushed the stick forward and looked at the altimeter.
Nick felt a twinge of panic before the MiG emerged from the dark clouds. He raised the nose and racked the aircraft into a steep turn. Where is that son of a bitch?
Three-quarters of the way through the turn, Palmer saw the MiG turning into him. Nick pulled with all his strength, then squeezed the trigger and felt a short vibration before the cannons jammed.
"Damnit!" Palmer exclaimed as an F-105 streaked under the two airplanes. He aimed straight at the nose of the approaching MiG and jinked up and down and left and right.
Passing sixty feet apart, Nick rammed the throttle into afterburner and dove for the deck. Palmer kept swiveling his head while he raced across the countryside. Without the use of the cannons, he was helpless to defend himself He heard another flight of four Thunderchiefs roll into their attack.
After a minute that seemed more like an eternity, Nick started to relax and pulled back the power. He flinched when a battle-damaged Thunderchief passed him off the left wing and then shot straight up through the ragged clouds.
Chapter THIRTY
Brad Austin inspected the low overcast and fought the temptation to check his watch. He looked the length of the runway and prayed for Palmer. The MiG would be running low on fuel by this time, and the weather at Alpha-29 was growing worse by the minute.
After a short conversation with two of the security men, Brad walked toward the Quonset hut. Although he tried to force himself to think positively, a gnawing concern about Palmer would not go away.
Allison rushed out of the building when Austin approached the entrance.
"We heard from Nick," she announced exuberantly.
"Good," Brad said casually. The nonchalant reply was an effort to conceal his overwhelming relief.
After a long look at the dark clouds, Austin joined Allison and Hollis Spencer in the cramped communications post.
"How far out is he?" Brad asked while he and Allison sat down beside Spencer.
"I'm not sure," Spencer answered with a look of concern. "He's trapped on top and unsure of his position."
Austin realized that if Palmer was flying above a solid deck of clouds and could not find an opening to descend through, he would not have a way to locate the airfield. Without a homing device to guide him to Alpha-29, Nick would have to rely on visually sighting the runway.
"Cap," Brad said, formulating a plan, "how much fuel does he have left?"
Spencer keyed his mike. "Buckboard, say fuel state."
The speaker remained quiet for a long moment.
"Fifteen to twenty minutes," Palmer responded at last, "if the gauges are accurate."
Brad grabbed a chart. "Where's the helo?"
"Sleepy Two Five," Spencer radioed, "how far out are you?"
"Ah ... Two Five is approximately fifteen miles out," Rudy Jimenez stated. "We're barely maintaining VFR."
The weather was making it difficult for the helicopter crew to fly by visual-flight rules.
"Cap, let me talk to them," Austin said hastily.
Spencer gave Brad a questioning look, then handed him the headset. "What have you got in mind?"
"Let me set it in motion," Austin declared while he adjusted the bulky headset, "and then I'll explain."
Spencer nodded and looked at Allison.
She shrugged and turned her attention to Brad.
"Buckboard and Sleepy, this is Alpha Two Nine, copy?" "Roger," Palmer answered.
"Copy," Jimenez replied, recognizing Brad's voice.
Austin hid his uneasiness. "Two Five, when you reach the field, can you climb on top?"
"Buckboard, what are the tops?" Jimenez asked coolly.
"It's varied," Palmer informed them while he surveyed the layers of thick clouds, "but I'd say around fifty-five hundred to six thousand .. . in the general direction of the field."
Rudy and Chase Mitchell conferred for a moment.
"Sleepy Two Five," Jimenez explained, "can get on top, but we can't guarantee that we'll be directly over the field."
Brad thought for a second. "That's okay. If Buckboard can get a visual on you, I can work him from the sound of his engine . . . the same for you."
There was a pause at the same time Spencer gave Brad a doubtful look.
"You must dream in technicolor," Jimenez said with a trace of sarcasm.
Austin ignored the remark. "Two Five, have you got flares?" "That's affirm."
"When you break out on top," Brad continued, "pop a flare every thirty seconds."
"Wilco."
Slowing to think, Brad keyed the mike. "Buckboard, when you're directly overhead--I'll call it by sound--I want you to go outbound on runway heading for one minute, do a procedure turn to the left, then let down when you turn inbound."
"A homemade approach," Palmer grumbled.
Austin could tell Nick's confidence was slipping away at a rate equal to his fuel consumption. "Descend until you break out."
"Or crash," Palmer replied in a flat voice.
"That's the best I can do," Brad said evenly, then added, "on the spur of the moment."
"What's the ceiling?" Palmer queried. "There's a lot of rocks in these clouds."
"Stand by," Austin said mechanically and yanked off the headset. He rushed outside and examined the overcast, noting that it was beginning to rain.
Returning to the radio compartment, Austin was surprised when Spencer confronted him.
"Brad, this is crazy," he said emphatically. "You're going to kill him if he can't find a hole to get under this stuff. And getting the helo down is not going to be an easy task."
Austin spoke slowly. "We shouldn't have launched him in the first place, since the forecast looked like shit."
"That's past history," Spencer retaliated in self-defense. "And not your responsibility, if you recall."
Allison tensed and reached for her cigarettes.
"Let's let Nick make the decision," Brad offered bluntly, "since it's his life. "
"Fair enough." Spencer gestured to the headset.
Austin sat down and replaced the earphones. He would give Palmer the current ceiling and visibility, then let Nick make the decision. "Buckboard, we've got approximately four hundred over, with ligh t r ain," he paused, "and the vis is at least three-quarters of a mile." Brad caught Allison's pained look.
"We can try the approach," Brad said with as much confidence as he could muster, "or I'll attempt to vector you over the field . . . and you can jump out."
Austin heard the helicopter race across the runway and begin a steep climb.
After a long silence, the speaker came alive.
"I sure as hell hope your ears have a good sense of direction," Palmer's voice cut through the soggy air, "because I'm not inclined to jettison the airplane."
"Buckboard," Jimenez interrupted, "Sleepy is over the field, climbing with everything pegged."
"Thanks," Palmer replied in a voice laced with trepidation.
Brad rose and handed the headset to Spencer. "Cap, if you will man the radio, I'll go outside."
Austin turned to Allison before Spencer could reply. "I'd appreciate it if you could stand outside the door to relay
the word to Cap."
She nodded and extinguished her cigarette.
"We've got to be right on the money," Brad declared as he rose from his chair and started toward the door.
"Buckboard," Spencer advised Palmer, "your cohort will be feeding me instructions for you."
"Roger that."
Craning his neck, Palmer looked out over the white-and-gray expanse of clouds. There was an occasional buildup where a vertically developed cumulonimbus was producing a thunderstorm with heavy rains.
Nick purposely avoided looking at the fuel indicator. He concentrated on scanning the sky ahead of the MiG, keeping his eyes constantly moving. It was easier to spot an object by sweeping the horizon than by staring at a specific area in the sky.
The minutes seemed to drag while Palmer waited to hear from the helicopter. He reduced power to idle and began a shallow descent. God, if you're watching over me, I'm going to need a little help this morning.
"Buckboard, Sleepy is on top at fifty-four hundred."
Palmer breathed a sigh of relief "I'm looking."
"We're popping a flare," Jimenez advised while Elvin Crowder shot a single flare out the entrance door. "It's away."
Nick studied the tops of the clouds in his desperate search. Seconds ticked by while the flare arched over and entered the thick overcast. "No joy," Palmer said in a hollow voice.
"We'll try again in twenty seconds," Jimenez assured him, wondering how he and Mitchell would fare during their descent in instrument conditions.
Beginning to wonder if he had overflown the airfield, Nick considered reversing course. He took a quick look at the fuel supply and decided to follow his flight plan. The fuel gauge indicated that he would flame out in a matter of minutes. He had to follow his instincts, and Austin's bold idea, if he was going to get the MiG down in one piece.
"Buckboard," Jimenez said soothingly, "we're going with another flare in five seconds."
"Copy," Palmer replied with a dry mouth. He let his eyes drift from forty-five degrees to the right of his heading, to forty-five degrees to the left, then reversed and scanned across the tops of the clouds.
"I've gotcha!" Nick rejoiced, turning toward the reddish-orange glow. "I'm at your eleven o'clock, high."
"Tally," Chase Mitchell exclaimed before Jimenez saw the descending MiG. "We're pointed in alignment with the runway, so make a pass by us for your initial heading."
"Wilco."
"Buckboard, we hear you," Spencer informed Palmer after Allison relayed Brad's words.
Nick tightened his turn, popped his speed brakes, and flew past the helicopter. In order to avoid a possible collision, the UH-34 would have to remain above the cloud deck until Palmer was safely down or had ejected. No one wanted to admit that Nick might hit the side of a mountain while he was descending in instrument conditions.
Palmer lowered the landing gear and flaps, the retracted the speed brakes as the fighter settled into the menacing clouds. He wanted to concentrate solely on flying the approach. Distractions could kill him because of the less-than-reliable instruments.
Austin heard the MiG approach and relayed the message to Spencer.
"Nick, you're passing directly overhead," Spencer radioed in a studiously calm tone, "slightly to the right of the runway . . . but definitely in the ballpark."
"Copy," Palmer replied with a tight voice.
Descending and correcting to the left, Nick counted the seconds to himself The instrument panel did not contain a clock.
Three seconds short of a minute, Nick was startled by Spencer's voice.
"Start your procedure turn."
"Roger," Palmer said, turning left forty-five degrees to a heading of 075 degrees. He leveled off and counted to himself The clouds grew darker, and Nick knew that he was approaching a thunderstorm cell.
With his heart in his throat, Palmer began a smooth 180-degree turn to the right at the forty-five-second mark. Rain cascaded across the canopy before Nick rolled out on a heading of 255 degrees.
Brad heard the MiG returning to the field. He glanced at Allison and hesitated while he listened. "Tell him to turn inbound--now!"
Palmer attempted to slow his breathing rate as he turned to the inbound heading after counting forty-five seconds.
"Buckboard," Spencer said hastily, "turn inbound!"
"I have," Nick responded while he concentrated on holding a heading of 300 degrees.
"Tell him to turn on his landing light," Brad yelled as he walked toward the runway.
Palmer swore to himself when Spencer relayed the terse message. He flipped the light on and gradually reduced power to slow the fighter.
Brad said another silent prayer while he strained to see the landing light. Soaked to the skin by the deluge of rain, Brad rejoiced when he saw the dull glow of the bright light.
"Turn slightly to the right!" he said excitedly to Allison, then froze when the light disappeared. "Pull up! Pull up!"
She yelled at Spencer.
Nick saw the hill a second before Spencer's frantic call. He snapped the stick back and shoved the throttle forward as the MiG skimmed the top of the small ridge.
Brad saw the light reappear when the MiG passed over the crest of the hill. He shouted to Allison.
"Get off the power!" Spencer relayed for Brad. "Slip it!"
Palmer felt as if he had been hit in the chest by a giant sledgehammer. He yanked the throttle to idle and extended the speed brakes. He saw the end of the runway rushing up from his right.
Nick cross-controlled the aircraft, dropping the right wing and raising the nose to sideslip the jet. The fighter sliced toward the runway at an alarming rate of descent.
"Flare, goddamnit," Brad said under his breath as Allison ran toward him.
Palmer waited till the last second to level the wings, then smashed onto the narrow runway. The MiG hydroplaned on the wet macadam and went off the right side of the airstrip.
Spencer rushed outside as Nick fought to regain control of the careening MiG.
"Oh, shit," Brad swore, grabbing Allison's arm and pulling her toward the other side of the runway.
After a half-dozen steps, Austin abruptly stopped when he saw the MiG slew around and head toward the runway.
"Run!" Brad shouted as he tugged Allison toward the Quonset hut. Reaching the entrance, the trio watched Nick hurtle past and slide the distance of the grass overrun. The MiG stopped with the nosewheel in the stream.
After Palmer shut down the engine, a sudden quiet settled over the airstrip.
"Well," Brad sighed with a nervous laugh, "it wasn't pretty, but at least he's on the ground in one piece."
While Austin and Spencer talked the helicopter pilots down, Allison and Hank Murray and his men raced through the rain to the side of the MiG.
Palmer had slid the canopy open and was crawling out of the cockpit when Allison ran around the end of the wing.
"Nick, are you--" She stopped in midsentence when he slipped off the fuselage and tumbled into the stream.
Palmer sat up in the shallow water and looked at Allison. "A perfect ending," he tilted his face into the rain, "to a perfect flight."
Allison, accompanied by Murray and his technicians, belly-laughed in relief.
After showering and changing into his custom-tailored flight suit, Nick Palmer joined Brad under the small roof over the entrance to the Quonset hut. A steady drizzle persisted after the rainstorm that had followed Palmer's haphazard landing.
Nick turned to Brad. "Thanks for saving my bacon."
"We were lucky this time," Austin admitted while he glanced at the low overcast. "We--the two of us--are going to make the final decision about weather from now on."
"I agree," Nick said, "or one of us is going to bust his ass trying to salvage a homemade approach."
They watched Hank Murray direct his men, along with twenty security personnel, in an effort to extract the MiG from the muddy stream. The ends of a thick rope had been tied to the struts of each main
landing gear. Murray centered the rope at the tow tractor, flipped a knot in the line, and attached the cord to the tug.
The driver backed away from the fighter's tail pipe until he. had a solid strain on the line. When Murray gave the signal, the tug driver floored the throttle while two dozen men pushed on the leading edge of the wings.
The rain-soaked men heaved and grunted while the tow vehicle spun its tires in the grass and mud. Slowly but steadily, the MiG's nosewheel emerged from the stream. After the aircraft was twenty yards from the edge of the water, Murray halted the tug driver. After removing the rope from the two struts, Murray directed the driver to attach his tow bar to the nosewheel.
The exhausted working detail trudged back to their posts while the MiG was towed to the shelter.
Brad and Nick entered the Quonset but and joined Cap Spencer, Allison, and the helicopter pilots at the cluttered briefing table.
"Nice GCA," Chase Mitchell said, referring to a radar-guided ground-controlled approach. By sound alone, Austin had directed the pilots through an instrument descent to an uneventful landing.
"Thanks," Brad replied while he sat down.
Palmer recounted the mission in detail up to the point where he attacked the two MiGs. His face did not reveal the mixed emotions he felt. He was pleased that he had downed another fighter, but disappointed that the MiG ruse had been discovered by the enemy.
"Cap," Palmer lightly drummed his fingers on the table, "they're onto us--the MiG drivers."
All eyes looked at Palmer, then shifted to Spencer. The project officer's irritation was evident.
"How did that happen?"
Nick replayed the event in his mind. "I had two MiGs--in formation--directly in front of me, and I thought I could get both of them."
Spencer tugged on his eye patch. "Go on."
"I got the wingman," Palmer declared in a low, even voice, "but the flight leader saw what happened."
A long silence hung in the air.
"He engaged me while I was trying to finish off his wingman." Nick stopped drumming and shrugged. "When I went one-on-one with the leader, my cannons jammed. I was damn lucky to get away, and there's no doubt the gomer is blowing the whistle as we speak."
Spencer studied Palmer for a brief moment. "If we receive permission to implement Austin's suggestion--strafing the airfields--we'll be okay, as far as the Agency is concerned. If we don't get the goahead, you've done the best you could . . . and you got another MiG."